


Hemorrhage

by Impressioniste



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/pseuds/Impressioniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke returns home, incensed, after battling a handful of bandits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hemorrhage

**Author's Note:**

> I've heavily rewritten parts of this from the original.

The dance of battle is a dance that Hawke knows well.

Each moment is a step, each step a flash of something both frozen in time and gone in an instant: the glint of steel, the spray of blood, the stench of death.

His palms caress his weapons, one in each hand; His fingers wrap around each hilt with the familiarity and intimacy of a lover. Each blade is an extension of himself, cutting through air and flesh and spilling blood as they find purchase; Bright crimson puddles glimmer on the street under the eerie yellow moonlight.

The bandits—two of them—realize that they have made a grievous error in their choice of nightly victim, but the epiphany comes far too late to be of any use. They had thought that one lone man would prove easy prey for two seasoned thugs.

They thought wrong; The price for their error is paid in lifeblood.

The dance is over much too soon, much too quickly for satisfaction. Hawke has only just hit his stride, has just barely begun feeling the full effect of the adrenaline coursing through his blood. Standing over the still, twisted bodies of his would-be attackers, he smirks to himself, wiping dark, sticky blood from his blades on the tattered, filthy vest of the closest corpse. He drops it carelessly once he's finished; It hits the ground with a delightfully hollow, sickening ‘thud’.

There is blood on his face, viscera on his clothes; He strides away from the scene, leaving a trail of crimson bootprints behind.

He barely remembers the rest of the walk home.

The expression on Anders’ face is clear in his mind, however, when he waltzes into their bedroom covered in gore. He tosses his bloody blades to the floor and tugs at the collar of his shirt, tearing at laces and fabric with near-euphoric heat still surging through his veins, radiating off his skin.

He turns to look at Anders, who is now only an arm’s length away, staring at him with an expression full of trepidation.

“It’s not mine." Hawke smirks as Anders' eyes narrow at the sight of his blood-covered clothing. It looks bad, he knows, but it's absolute truth—there's not a scratch on him.

He can see the sharp fear and worry instantly soften and melt from Anders’ face, replaced by relief and affection. For a moment, an aura of sweet, fragile vulnerability hovers around him, and Hawke cannot resist reaching out and taking his face in both his hands, drawing Anders close and kissing him full on the mouth.

Anders leans into the kiss without hesitation, not even when he recognizes the unmistakable taste of blood—metallic and hot and bitter and salty—on Hawke’s lips. He sighs; Hawke only grips his face tighter, brushing callused thumbs over the rough layer of stubble on Anders’ cheeks, leaving flaky, crimson-black streaks along Anders’ skin in the wake of his bloodstained fingers.

Anders cannot help but wonder exactly what happened to Hawke on his way home, though he can make an educated guess without much effort. He thinks about stopping to ask, but before the idea can fully take shape and give him pause, Hawke’s tongue pierces his distracted thoughts, hot and wet and heavy in his mouth, sending logic scrabbling back into the shapeless ether of his mind.

He purrs against Hawke’s mouth, curling his fingers around the collar of his bloodstained shirt, tearing it open without thought for the fabric.

“It was already ruined." Anders smirks when Hawke raises an eyebrow. His grin deepens and he melts into the kiss, drawing Hawke’s lower lip playfully between his teeth, grazing them back and forth across the soft flesh before finally biting down just hard enough to make Hawke gasp, then grunt.

Hawke finally pulls back to catch his breath, panting and dragging hot, sloppy kisses down the length of Anders’ throat, biting down on the deliciously soft flesh between his neck and shoulder. Anders sucks in a breath and lets it back out with a high-pitched whine in response, sliding his hands under the fabric of Hawke’s shirt and digging his fingers into his shoulders. Hawke can feel the bite of fingernails cutting into his flesh, but it only makes him bite down harder on Anders' neck in response.

The bed is only halfway across the room, but it might as well be halfway across the ocean as far as Hawke is concerned. Any thought of making it that far is wiped from his mind when Anders takes his brief distraction as an opportunity to nudge Hawke back up against the wall, pinning him there with hands and hips. The bed no longer matters—it is far more suited to their customary gentle, slow lovemaking anyway, he reasons. For _this_... the floor beneath them is more than enough.

Hawke slides to the floor with his back pressed hard against the wall, using it for leverage to pull Anders down with him, on top of him. Straddling his lap and adjusting deliberately, Anders shifts and twists, grinding against him so hard that his breath catches in his throat. Hawke's tattered shirt hangs off his shoulders as he wraps his arms around Anders’ waist, crushing their bodies together, burying his face back against the warm, soft curve of Anders’ neck.

Anders shifts again; Hawke moans, hard and deep and rough, sliding his fingers into the folds of Anders’ trousers, digging them into the softest part of his lean, muscular ass as their hips thrust and rock together, the clothing between them only adding to the friction. Anders slides his arms tightly around Hawke’s neck, wrapping his fingers in tendrils of thick, coarse black hair. He's already painfully hard inside his trousers; Hawke is too, if the bulge digging into his ass is any indication.

They’re both still fully clothed, Hawke realizes, but he doesn't want to stop, not even long enough to disrobe. Anders' bare skin sliding against his would feel wonderful, but the pressure of his body on top of Hawke's groin is exquisite, and the thought of it stopping makes him ache. He doesn't need to be naked to come, and that's all he wants, right now.

It doesn't take long.

Anders’ pulse beats hard and fast against Hawke’s lips, the thrust of his hips becoming quicker, impatient. Hawke gasps and groans and sucks in a sharp, hissing breath as the combination of pressure and friction finally overcome him, shuddering as his muscles snap taut in climax, spending himself inside his trousers. All Hawke can do is hold on tight, clutching Anders' ass as he grinds himself to completion a few moments later, his fingers tightening in Hawke’s hair and pulling it hard, gasping and choking and shuddering as he comes.

It takes a few moments of silence and breath and considerable effort for Anders to slide himself off Hawke’s lap and roll up against him, sliding a tired arm around his waist, equally sated and equally spent. Pressing his cheek against Hawke’s broad chest, he can feel his heart pumping, pounding out a rhythm that slowly changes from wildly erratic to strong and even. He feels Hawke’s hand touch his head, his fingers gliding through the mop of Anders' tangled, sweaty, messy blond hair.

“I love you,” Anders murmurs quietly, when he can finally catch his breath.

Hawke doesn’t speak, but Anders feels his heart unmistakably skip a beat in return, and that’s answer enough for him.


End file.
